


Two boys in a blue bus

by eyeslikerain



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman, Find Me - André Aciman
Genre: 1989, 1993, AIDS, Heartbreak, M/M, bergamo, blow jobs in semi-public places, plus the "Find me" fix-it nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: Elio dragged Oliver into a dim hallway off the cloister they were about to pass, pressed him against the wall and kissed him until they were both breathless.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 168
Kudos: 97





	1. Secret photos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BumbleBeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BumbleBeer/gifts).



> ...for being unknowingly a great inspiration. You motivated me more than you can imagine, so much so that I had to change the chapter numbers to "?"!

And so, everything ended. Summer had transcended it‘s zenith. Oliver was about to leave. Even the heat of midday had lost some of it‘s dry, dusty edge. 

The rear of the bus disappeared behind a bend in Crema‘s narrow streets. The radiant blue of the bus flashed one last time, intensified by the bright orange, terracotta or yellow facades. A low roar and one last funny, cheerful singsong of it‘s horn was the last greeting of the vehicle that took Oliver irrevocably back and out of their view. The Perlmans strolled slowly to their parked car, their arms around each other. Chiara stomped the ground angrily before turning her bike. How could she have forgotten to ask the splendid americano for his address? The slam of the Perlman‘s car door echoed in Chiara‘s ears. Over. One more missed chance. Before they started their car, Chiara hopped on her bike, adjusted her large purse and dashed over the empty piazza. Venting her rage about her own tardiness on her bike, she decided to stop by Marzia‘s place to deliver the invitation to dinner in person. This had been so in character of Mrs Perlman – to invite them both to spend a lovely evening at the villa when she sensed Chiara‘s disappointment about the missed farewell. It wouldn‘t bring Oliver back, but she might manage to ask for his address. With Marzia‘s help.

*

Marzia, sitting cross-legged on her bed and flipping slowly through a stack of large photos in front of her, reacted unexpectedly tight-lipped to the invitation to dinner. Usually, it was great fun and a honour to be asked formally by the Perlmans. Even if they were fed generously and at any time of the day whenever they enjoyed swimming or playing tennis at the villa, a dinner invitation was a rare and special pleasure. The meal would be elaborate and delicious, and there were usually rare and unique dinner guests, providing even more unusual conversations. Marzia loved spending an evening in the Perlmans company. But not today.

„I think I‘ll take a pass. Will you excuse me?“

Marzia didn‘t look up from her photos. They were slightly rolled, not flat and even like the one‘s you get printed professionally – a proof that she had spent a prolific evening in her darkroom. Since her bed was littered with photos and folders, Chiara let herself fall unceremoniously onto a chair and asked sternly:

„What‘s up? Are you mad at someone?“ Chiara raised her eyebrows, knowing all too well whom she alluded to. Marzia shook her head, wordlessly, and carefully laid two large prints next to her knee. Chiara waited for some seconds before nudging Marzia again: „Huh?“

Marzia looked at her, her eyes large and thoughtful, until she finally spoke:

„Not mad. Sad.“

„Because Elio went with him?“

„No. Elio can have any vacation he desires. Because…“ Her voice trailed off. She turned her head and looked out of her open window. Tall trees, dark green leaves, slivers of blue sky. As blue as two days ago when Elio had answered her question if she wasn‘t his girl just with a shrug. Coward. No. Elio was no coward, not usually, that is. He seemed altered. Nervous, elated, on edge and jumpier than usual. On his way to his americano, no second to spare. Not even the few seconds it would have taken him to answer in a full sentence. Marzia had recognized the light blue shirt that hung loosely over Elio‘s lithe frame, at least four sizes too large. It was common among girlfriends to exchange clothes, but she had never heard of guys doing so. And Elio looked like drugged. High of something she never had experienced with him. It hurt. It hurt, and it made her sad. Spending an evening at the villa and feeling his absence even more certainly wouldn‘t help. If she examined her feelings further, she had to admit that she was a little mad also. He hadn‘t even said goodbye to her. She knew he‘d come again in three days, but...

„Oh, that‘s Oliver?“, Chiara exclaimed. Without asking, she had taken the two photographs Marzia had separated from the rest. Unusual for Marzia‘s carefully taken photographs, these had the quality of a snapshot: Oliver on his bike, seen from behind, loose shirt billowing behind him and one arm raised in farewell. The photo was his personified „Later!“. The gesture, him already turned, the exact second he‘d throw his infamous „Later!“ over his shoulder. They had mocked him in the beginning, Elio especially. Now, the flippant remark was the essence of Oliver. Their Oliver - summer. Oliver smelling of his ubiquitous suntan lotion. Oliver, books under his arms and striding on endless legs to his favourite spot in the garden. „Later“, non – committal and vague, always keeping all the backdoors open. With which spell had Elio managed to pin him down? How had he managed to bewitch him to the extent that they even took a holiday together now? Marzia sighed inwardly. She knew only too well about Elio‘s charms. She knew exactly how he had suceeded.

„But these are splendid! That‘s the muvistar to a t!“ Chiara beamed.

„Take them to the Perlman‘s. Send them my love and say I‘m unwell. Migraine, or something.“

„No! You‘re coming with me!“ Chiara got up and leaned forward: „I need you! I forgot to ask Oliver for his address. You know, I need it for when I want so start my modeling career.“

„Philosophy professors are not your usual door opener for models, from what I hear?“

„Yeah, but, for one“ – Chiara touched one finger – „he‘s in America. And I want to start right there, as you know. He‘s rich. Maybe his family has connections.“

„Why do you think he‘s rich?“

„Elio said so.“

„Elio told me Oliver‘s family is bone - deep New England, traditional, puritan, with a strong work ethic. And generally austere morals. I doubt they‘d support something as shallow as…“

„Come on! I need you. I just want to get his address. Just in case. Should I get stranded in America or something.“

„Just ask Mrs Perlman.“

„It‘s easier if you‘re with me“, Chiara pleaded. She blinked heavily at Marzia and finished with heart – melting dog eyes. „Come on!“

Marzia sighed. Her eyes had wandered over the photos in her hands. Quickly, she put the one of Elio looking at her with dreamy, sleepy eyes at the back of the stack. She had stared at them long enough under the red light of the darkroom yesterday, Elio‘s fine features appearing hazily and slowly as if by magic on the white paper swimming in it‘s bath. She couldn‘t avert her eyes this morning when she freed them of the clothes pins which fastened the photos on the short clothes line. She wanted to have a good look now. If only Chiara hadn‘t interrupted her. She looked up:

„All right, I‘ll go. Pick me up on your way?“

Chiara smiled and was already at the door: „Sure. Later!“

*

Marzia heard her bouncing steps skipping down the staircase. She waited until she was sure Chiara wouldn‘t come back. She didn‘t want to see those photos of Elio, and she couldn‘t wait to see them. Her heart clenched. Was it really only last week that they had lounged in such intimacy on her bed? Slowly, she looked for the photo again. Elio, lying on his side on her bed, large, mellow eyes, delicately curved full lips, and a sweet expression between being half awake and drifting off to dreams. She had teased him that he seemed to get not enough rest at night. He had only sighed and looked at her, wordlessly but telling her so much with his eyes. When he slid down on the bed, she had asked if she could take photos of him. He nodded, she knelt on the floor and came as close as she rarely had done. He didn‘t mind. He seemed far away. Almost like – drunk? Fulfilled? Certainly, their brief sexual encounters, or, better: attempts at encounters, couldn‘t change Elio in such a remarkable way. He seemed in full bloom. Satisfied and tired out by too much happiness. Having taken a series of photos, one more gorgeous than the other, she slowly let her camera sink and looked Elio straight into the eyes. He raised himself onto his elbows, uncertain, and looked at her with wrinkled forehead. Her scrutinizing eyes troubled him. She slid a finger tenderly across his cheek, tucked a dark curl behind his ear and just said:

„Oliver?“

Elio‘s eyes grew large, a slight flicker of nervousness grazed his lips, but he held her gaze and nodded. He touched her fingers:

„I‘m sorry.“

Marzia leaned her head against Elio‘s forehead. She felt his breath on her face. Putting her camera onto the floor, she kissed him on his forehead and searched for his eyes:

„At least, you‘ve got great taste.“ Elio curled his lips. „I hate him.“

„No, you don‘t hate him“, Elio replied. „It‘s just – complicated.“

Marzia nodded and slapped him playfully on the shoulder:

„I hate you too.“

Suddenly, Elio grasped her with unexpected force, lifted her onto the bed and wrangled her down, gasping:

„I don‘t hate you.“ Marzia giggled because Elio had started to tickle her in the right spots. She squirmed and struggled under him until he demanded:

„Tell me you don‘t hate me!“ Marzia shook her head stubbornely and didn‘t say a word. Elio bit her neck and her clavicles until she screamed. Finally, she surrendered and was quiet under him. Breathing heavily, she conceded:

„All right, I don‘t hate him. But I don‘t want to lose you to him.“

Elio looked down at her gravely. She realized that she already had lost him.

„Not as a lover, I mean. As a friend. I don‘t want to lose you as a friend.“

„You won‘t. I promise.“ 

„Were we friends first, or lovers? Can we turn back to being friends again?“, Marzia asked.

Elio stroked her tangled hair out of her eyes, tenderly, but already absent – mindedly:

„Maybe that‘s what lovers are – friends first? And then, forever?“

Elio kissed her softly on the lips. Oh, Elio‘s lips! He was a great kisser. Inventive and creative, sometimes weird even. But always with all his heart on his lips. Until now. Marzia sensed a silver grey waft of farewell, of reduction to mere friendship, in Elio‘s kiss. Would it never be like before again? Would he turn back to her once the splendid americano was back in his far – away country?

She looked at the photo again and felt a pang in her stomach. The stupid saying came to her mind: why are all the cute guys gay? She had had almost a week to adjust to the fact, but she still suffered. Maybe it would help to be in Elio‘s home tonight. Maybe she would have another sleepless night. Anyway, she started to look through her photos again and took notes which ones she wanted to print again for the Perlmans. The ones taken in her room were too intimate, even for parents. She would show them to Elio alone. But she had taken a series of him at the piano she was quite proud of. Of course, taking stunning photos was easy when having such a stunning model. But he was so much more than a beautiful face on a perfect body. Music transformed him. She had captured some special moments when his features were almost in a trance – like state. Also some closeups of his hands while playing. She had to crouch and crawl under the ancient grand piano, but it had been worth it. Was it too late for a little scrapbook to bring tonight? Or should she plan this for christmas? Sliding one of the „secret“ photos into her already well – loved copy of the poems Elio had given her she decided to let the idea stew a bit more. Maybe she could take some more photos tonight or in the next days and give the Perlmans a real souvenir of the whole summer when snow was covering the villa.


	2. Slaving away in the library

And what if he just quit? Dragged Oliver out of this stuffy, overheated hall, back to their hotel and straight into bed? Elio had consented to copying paragraphs out of rare books. Had consented because he wanted to prove his love. His seriousness: of course he‘d offer his companion more than open, expectant lips and a willing pliant body. More than semi – intellectual banter over coffee and cherries in the morning. He wanted to prove his affection by slaving away like a medieval scrivener for him, adding words and sentences meticulous and neat onto the page, to be read later, in a different climate, under different skies. A last farewell and souvenir of their last hours together. Would Oliver remember the circumstances when skimming the page for a paragraph he needed? Would he remember where the hand that was copying away now, lovingly and as readable as he mustered, had been last night? Which secret crevices and valleys of his body it had hungrily explored? 

The early afternoon made Elio drowsy, owing not only to their short but adventurous night on their last day at the villa, but also to the heat seeping into the library. It was August, still, even if forebodings of autumn had been in the air earlier today. They were holed up in the Humanities library of Bergamo University. The picturesque cloister through which they had entered was a transparent, dancing rhythm of light and shadow, inviting and airy. Of course, the priceless rare books Oliver needed for his research couldn‘t be taken outside. And so it was the slightly stuffy great hall with the open beams and the terracotta tiles they were confined to. All the heat, all the warm air of June and July still seemed to linger there, immovabely, seeping into their clothes and lungs. It was a labour of love, indeed, to excerpt the long passage of Marsilio Ficino on Heraclitus Oliver had asked him to copy. Those old books were too precious to survive the torture of being pressed into a xerox machine. Oliver might order some microfiches, painless and harmless for the book, but it might take some weeks. So – the old-fashioned way it was, Elio slaving away like a medieval scrivener ordered around by a severe brother. His pen stopped: Oliver had promised him, mellow, whispered voice tickling his ears, that he could do anything with him he wished once they were finished for the day. And that he would do anything he liked, he had added after Elio had cocked his head and pursed full, raspberry – red lips. Memories of sweat between them, squeaking sheets, stifled cries of lust flooded him. The tingle of the promise spurred him to consent to any odd copy job Oliver asked of him. He was a slave, doubly. 

Wafts of heat circled him and made his head dizzy. Didn‘t Oliver feel anything of it? He had been inordinately excited by a source the librarian suggested he hadn‘t expected to find here. Elio knew this kind of sparkle in his eyes, the slightly raised timbre of his voice, only in a different, more intimate context. Intellectual and erotic curiosity seemed to dwell in the same chamber of Oliver‘s heart. But Elio had felt excluded. As much as he tried: these were Oliver‘s realms, the very own spaces of his mind. Elio‘s father could follow him there, but not Elio. And this was only the beginning of separation. Soon, a plane would take him into still different spaces, places so high and uninhabitable his Greek philosopher never would believe it. And back to yet another space, unknown and foreign to Elio, familiar and dear to Oliver. Some obscure address in Manhattan meaning nothing at all to Elio. Elio, who knew the geography, the valleys and hills of Oliver‘s body so intimately now. Knew even in the dark where his fingers might find a certain curve, a certain raising moulded by a strong bone under it. Oliver‘s hip bone… Elio‘s thoughts drifted off again. He propped one elbow onto the desk and rested his head in his hand. Gazing dreamily through the diaphanous curtains of one of the large windows, he saw Oliver‘s naked figure resting next to him on their bed. When he lay on his back, his hipbone was…

Elio sighed involuntarily which brought him an amused reprimand of Oliver, splendid, radiant Oliver, at the desk next to him. Oliver‘s lips curled upwards at the ends while he silently raised himself and his chair over the terracotta tiles towards Elio‘s desk. A glimpse over his shoulder reassured him that the librarian was occupied otherwise. She had already darted attentive glances into their direction when they couldn‘t avoid whispered words while dividing their tasks. Slipping his chair as close to Elio‘s as possible, he slid into it and pressed his thigh flush against Elio‘s leg, his eyes on the pages in front of them. Pointing to a certain passage with his pen, he whispered:

„I know how you feel, but please don‘t look at me like that. I can barely concentrate myself. But it needs to be done, all right?“

Turning his head, he looked into large eyes full of desire and fulfillment at the same time. Full of love and adoration. Elio started to worry his lips and moistened them with his tongue. An innocent, unconscious act, meant to balance the dry air in the large room, but bringing about butterflies of lust in Oliver‘s groin. Oliver shook his head slightly:

„Don‘t do that. Just don‘t, please.“ 

They looked onto the books on the desk again, away from the shallow reefs of seduction only too visible on their faces. Oliver felt hot, soft fingers grazing his knee. He almost hissed. It had been his idea to head straight to the library after a panino and coffee, skipping more interesting hours spent in their inviting bed in the pensione. Directly after arriving in Bergamo and getting accustomed, the plan had seemed like a good idea, even if Elio had teased him about his puritan work morale: work first, pleasure later. But they had stored so many memories of lust and fulfillment, not only of last night but also the many nights before. It seemed feasible they might survive a few hours without touching, biting and devouring each other. Two hours ago, it had seemed feasible. But with the afternoon progressing, the muted sun slowly wandering over the smooth floor, his desire grew undeniably. Oliver searched for Elio‘s slender fingers under the desk, pressed them and murmured:

„Our reward will be sweeter if we wait. Believe me.“

Elio let out some air and whispered almost angrily: „I‘m not that old and wise as you. Some of us have problems stifling their needs.“ He drew Oliver‘s hand into his groin and pressed the promise of his cock against him. Oliver moaned softly and cupped the warm bulge through Elio‘s jeans. Elio closed his eyes. He felt Oliver‘s warm lips at his ear again, his breath leaving trails of moisture on his neck:

„One more hour, and I‘m all your‘s. You can do with me whatever you want.“

With this, Oliver had already grasped his chair and was on his way back, robbing Elio of the opportunity to work his charms on him.

*

When Elio gathered his papers, got up and quickly nibbled Oliver‘s earlobe while whispering „I‘m done with Ficino. You‘re next“, their bedsheets danced in a light summer breeze on their line back home, almost dry. The still strong sun erased all memories of their scents and filled the sheets with dreams of summer and herbs. At the same time, while Mafalda‘s pasta sauce bubbled on the stove, Marzia stood in front of her closet and considered her options: a dress and a jean jacket, or her yellow pants with a light weight sweater? While Annella slowly laid the table in the garden under the tree and looked forward to having two daughters tonight and no - one else, Elio dragged Oliver into a dim, deserted hallway off the cloister they were about to pass, pressed him against the wall and kissed him until they both were breathless.


	3. Sinning in monasteries a.k.a. Elio can't wait

Elio pressed Oliver into the ancient rough brickwall of the hallway and started to curl a thigh over his long legs. He continued kissing him hungrily, without any precaution or consideration as to where they were. When curious hands roamed his shoulders and Elio started to grind their hips together while his tongue entered his mouth, Oliver tried to interrupt him amused. He had learned over the last weeks at what breathstopping speed his young lover would go from cuddly kisses to ravenous surrender. It shouldn‘t happen necessarily here, as he needed the library for further study. And should consider the reputation of his host. Whose son almost started to climb him, then and there. He stopped the wriggly warm creature twining himself around him and gasped:

„Elio! Elio, calm down. Let‘s get back to the hotel.“

Elio shook his head stubbornly:

„No, need you here. Waited already long enough.“

„Come on, we‘ll be in the hotel in fifteen minutes!“

„You really want to be seen on the street like this?“, Elio asked and let his hand wander down Oliver‘s pants. Oliver arrested it in his groin, closed his eyes and moaned:

„If you‘d please stop now, we can look respectable when walking back. Semi – respectable…“

Elio interrupted him:

„Forget it. You promised I‘d get anything I want if I copy this chapter. And I want you, and now.“ His voice grew deeper and even more seductive and was suddenly close to Oliver‘s ear: „I waited all day long. I was horny in the bus already, remember? When you mentioned you didn‘t know how to sit after last night?“ Oliver hissed and, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, bent Elio‘s head back and kissed him fervently. „I need you now. No discussion. Come on.“

Elio grasped his hand with sticky, hot fingers, looked around him and pulled him away from the sunlight playing in the cloister‘s arcades, deeper into the building. Everything was open here, little nooks and turns opened from the dim hallway without any doors. A structure only a warm climate could think of. Silently, they proceeded around one more corner. No - one seemed to be around. This seemed to be a very ancient but rarely used part of the former monastery. The whole building was in a deep late – afternoon slumber. They had been almost the only people in the stuffy library, and here – absolutely no – one. When they passed one more broad doorstep without a door, Elio peeked inside: perfect. A large, dim room, getting light only by small pigeonhole – sized openings allowing some air in high above the ground. Old, solid columns, supporting a sequel of vaults, gave the room a graceful rhythm. But instead of respecting the past and the beauty of the structure, the room was unceremoniously crammed with stacks of plastic chairs. Oliver frowned:

„This is how they use old dormitories here? Or chapter houses?“

Elio shrugged: „We got enough of them, I guess. Now let me show you another way to use them…“ 

He took Oliver‘s backpack from his shoulder and put it decidedly onto a stack of chairs nearby. While he was dragged farther into the room, Oliver pleaded:

„We can‘t desecrate a monastery! Elio, that‘s really too much!“

„You don‘t want to know what the monks did in here.“ Elio kissed his neck and started to work a hand under Oliver‘s blue t-shirt.

„But what about your father? He‘s well known here…“

„Please don‘t bring up my father now. You promised I could demand anything from you. And now“ – a sudden erotic tingle hung in the warm, dusty air between them. Oliver was mesmerized by Elio‘s beauty. The dark pink lips in his porcelain face. The beautiful curved shape of them. Sparkling green eyes. He surrendered, tenderly drew Elio behind one of the columns, farther away from the entrance of the room, pinned his hands on delicate wrists above his head with one hand and whispered:

„On the condition that you remain silent. And that we wait for two minutes if anyone followed us.“

He started to kiss the side of Elio‘s neck who wailed incredulously: „Two minutes? Do you want to kill me?“

Oliver chuckled and searched for the bulge in Elio‘s pants, still dotting a trail of kisses down his delicate neck. While nuzzling the collar of Elio‘s striped polo shirt, he whispered:

„You haven‘t yet told me what you want.“ 

Elio froze for a moment. When Oliver searched for his eyes, he saw a triumphant glint in them:

„Make me come with your lips.“ Oliver felt a twitch in Elio‘s cock which was still in his hand. He nodded. 

„Anything you want. But the two minutes aren‘t over yet. So…“ Oliver slowly searched for the buttons of Elio‘s jeans and kissed him again. Elio went slack against the column and sighed. Their hands met on the front of his jeans. They smiled. Elio let Oliver open them and felt them slowly slip to the floor, curling around his feet. His boxers were pushed down equally swift. Elio sighed when he felt air on his thighs and, soon afterwards, large, warm hands wandering from his knee upwards. Oliver‘s hands stroked the side of his leg, his hip, as much of his buttock as he could find and his thigh again. He deliberately neglected his cock, ready and even more demanding than Elio himself.

„Think we‘re safe here, don‘t you?“

Elio nodded quickly with closed eyes, steadied himself with slightly opened legs against the column and hissed when he felt Oliver‘s hot lips much sooner than expected on his cock. Oliver was already on his knees in front of him. His golden hair glinted in the soft light. Elio wove his fingers into the blond strands, searching for support. He felt tender fingers grazing his balls while Oliver‘s tongue flickered over the tip of his cock and kissed it slowly and wet. Oliver alternated licks of the tip with longer, full – lipped, expert kisses. Elio moaned loudly when Oliver finally took all of him into his mouth and slowly let his silky lips glide up and down his full length. Elio had waited for this so long, had dreamed of it in the endless hours spent in the library, and now – fuck. His knees gave in, he spasmed and came in Oliver‘s mouth before he had time to warn him. Fuck. 

„Oh, oh, oh no, I‘m sorry, Oliver, I‘m sorry…“, he gasped while groping for Oliver‘s head with both hands. Oliver steadied himself on one knee, his eyes flashed periwinkle blue while he swallowed visibly with a lop-sided grin. He kissed Elio‘s naked tummy under the dishevelled shirt, hoisted himself up to be at eye level with Elio and grinned once more while he wrapped him into his arms:

„So we discuss for minutes and wait for some more minutes for – this?“ Oliver seemed to enjoy to tease him. „Thirty seconds? We could‘ve done this in the library as well. While the librarian turned to refill her tea...“

„Stop making fun of me. I was…“

Suddenly, Elio fell back against the column and almost slid off it. His head fell back. He was paler than ever.

„You‘re not going to faint, are you?“ Oliver asked concerned. He tried to get hold of Elio‘s back and lifted him from the column into his arms.

„Bit dizzy all of a sudden…“ Elio whispered and clung to Oliver. 

„You should have eaten something. Sorry. Come here.“ Oliver lifted him with strong arms onto a lower stack of chairs, pooling jeans and underwear and all, and drew him into his arms. Elio let his head sink onto his shoulder and went limp.

„You okay? Still there?“

Oliver felt strong curls nodding up and down his neck:

„Me okay. This was just a bit much, I guess.“

„You wanted it!“, he teased him.

Again, a nod on his clavicle. „I did, and it was magnificent. And well worth the wait. Guess my blood just went somewhere else.“ Elio‘s voice trailed off. Oliver waited some seconds, stroking the sharp shoulderblades he knew so well by now, until he said:

„Let‘s get you decent now. Hop down.“ Elio obliged. Oliver kneeled again to sort and pull up the tangle of fabric at Elio‘s feet. While doing so, he affectionately kissed the porcelain, lean thighs in front of his eyes. A sprinkle of kisses on the left one, a short bite and a long kiss onto the right one. Like mother-of-pearl, he thought, amazed again at Elio‘s beauty. Buttoning his jeans and finally hoisting him up onto the chairs again, he said:

„Better to faint fully clothed. That way, you can always say it was Marsilio Ficino who overwhelmed you.“ Elio grinned faintly. He really was pale. „Oh dear, I have to take better care of you. Next time, I‘ll feed you first.“

„It has nothing to do with food. Or blood sugar. You know this.“

Oliver stroked his cheek and kissed him tenderly: „I know.“

A dove started to coo softly above their heads, somewhere outside the minuscule windows. Oliver smiled: „Like back home in your attic.“ Elio nodded sadly and said:

„And I‘m close to breaking down like back in the attic again.“

Oliver scrutinized his face, took it between both of his hands and kissed his mouth:

„I know what you feel.“

Elio freed himself, wrinkled his forehead and sighed:

„How can it be that lust and sadness are so close together? You almost killed me with what you did to my body, and yet I felt such a stab of pain, right inside my soul, that I felt completely torn to pieces. That‘s why I felt dizzy“, he explained. Oliver nodded. They looked at each other in the dim light. Except for the monotonous melody of the dove, the campus was enveloped in drowsy silence. Even if no – one was there to overhear them, Oliver whispered. This was true intimacy: to share your deepest worries with someone.

„Believe me, it‘s hard for me, too. To know that our days are numbered… Cruelly so, especially now. I can‘t avoid to interrupt everything we do with thoughts of: is it the last time? The last time we get a key to a hotel room? Enter a bus? Order a coffee? Sleep…“

„Stop it“, Elio clumsily covered Oliver‘s mouth, then looked at him apologizingly: „Same here. But please don‘t say it loudly.“

„Elio“, Oliver demanded his attention. Elio raised his head from where he had buried it at Oliver‘s neck. Oliver stood between his legs and drew him even closer on the wobbly stack of cheap chairs. Elio involuntarily raised his knees and slung his legs around Oliver – his body had a memory of it‘s own, like well – practiced dance movements you even knew in dreams – „I don‘t want this to be over, too.“ They pressed their arms around each other, remained like this and listened to each other‘s slow breaths. After some seconds, Elio mumbled:

„Do you really? Am I more than a summer fling?“

„You goose! Of course you are!“ Elio flinched and pursed his lips when he looked up to Oliver with glistening eyes. „But – it‘s complicated.“

„I thought as much. I mean – you knew I was going to study in the United States, but you never reacted. Like „let‘s grab a coffee then!“ or something like that…“

„You are a goose, aren‘t you? You don‘t offer a lover just coffee.“

„Am I your lover?“

„Yes, what else?“

„Don‘t know…“ Elio shrugged. He couldn‘t avoid a happy grin.

„My lover, who‘s hopefully not underage much longer.“

„November 16“, Elio replied.

„So, one problem solved. The next one: my parents. Can‘t be solved. Ever. I‘ll get disinherited. At the least.“

„Do you mind? Could you support yourself?“

Oliver nodded “I already do. It‘s not the only problem troubling us. We have a pretty bad relationship. Nothing like your parents and you.“ Oliver shrugged his shouders.

„Any more skeletons in the closet?“, Elio joked. Oliver nodded. He propped his chin onto Elio‘s tangled curls, drew in his scent and said quietly: „As you might have suspected, there is someone else. Was. Is. I don‘t know.“ Elio froze in his arms. He repeated: „Was? Is?“

Oliver looked at him: „I don‘t know myself. It was on and off for two years. My mother thinks she‘s perfect. But the last thing I heard from her was a quite unfavourable wish concerning me, my plane and the deep atlantic. She was mad I went to Sicily before coming to you instead of spending the summer with her. She had expected a big engagement party before I left. My mother fuelled those figments. I‘m not the person for engagements, Elio.“

„I could live with that.“ Oliver chuckled. They kissed.

„Do you – love her?“ Elio asked hesitantly.

„No!“, Oliver sounded insulted. „This is the plan my mother mapped out for me. I‘d never have chosen Christie. I tried to, you know, like her, but that‘s not enough.“

„I like you“, Elio said simply.

„I like you too. But that‘s different.“

Elio sighed loudly, raised his arms above his head and stretched them with intertwined hands. The chairs wobbled even more. He hopped down, stretched himself some more and looked at Oliver:

„Sounds as if you had some straightening up to do.“ Oliver nodded. „Take all the time you need. Maybe, what we had was also a dream… A chimera. Maybe we can look back on it some day and say: do you remember this crazy summer? Before we all married and got fifteen children? It‘s just – hard to accept it right now.“

„This here“, Oliver stroked Elio‘s lips, „this is not a chimera. This is the right thing for me. I know it, and I‘m scared of it. But I have a notion this is not the end.“

„It might be my end if I don‘t get something to eat soon“, Elio tried to lighten up their heavy conversation.“

„Right“, Oliver squeezed his butt when Elio started to leave the room. He groped for his bag on the way out, grasped Elio around his waist and whispered into his ear: „Let‘s beef you up. You‘ll need all your strength tonight.“


	4. Breaking the silence of the girls

„Something sparkling? To celebrate the ladies?“

Samuel held up the promising cool bottle. Flickers of the light of the candles in hurricane lamps danced over his face. He was in good spirits. He always enjoyed the presence of women, especially as he saw so few of them in his field of study. Marzia and Chiara nodded, proud and flattered to be offered alcohol without any remarks about their age. 

„Oh yes, let‘s celebrate. I always wanted a daughter. It‘s so good to have you two here tonight!“, Annella took her glass and nodded a „thank you“ at Samuel.

„Then why don‘t you invite a female student next year? It would spare us much heartbreak in Lombardy“, Marzia said.

„No!“, Chiara protested. „Oliver was great fun! He didn‘t break any hearts, did he?“

„La muvi - star“, Annella mumbled, scrutinizing Marzia‘s averted eyes. 

„He was much better than the guy last year. Wasn‘t he, Marzia?“ Chiara nudged her. Marzia shrugged her shoulders. „Better at tennis, also.“

„Pavel never played tennis.“

„And Maynard never even left his room“, Samuel remembered. They raised their glasses while Samuel said: „To the ladies!“ After a first sip, he continued: „Women rule the world, invisibly and maybe behind the scenes, but they are the real force behind everything. Be it good, be it bad.“ 

„Lucrezia Borgia?“, Annella suggested.

„Electra?“, Marzia smiled at Annella.

„No no no, you bring only the worst examples! I mean – so many women with influence are nameless. We don‘t even know the name their parents gave them. And yet - without them, history might have taken a different turn. You know“ – another sip, an animated glance over his misted – up glass – „I always wondered where the women are in the great stories from antiquity. Of course, you have Penelope. Circe. Helen. But we see them only for a few scenes. Just a glimpse, a mere second in their lives. What did they think when the warriors had left? What did they talk about while being locked in Troia for ten years? I think someone should write the story of the silent girls of Troia. Wouldn‘t it be much more interesting than the men killing each other, falling into the dust, piercing each other with their lances?“

Annella shuddered: „Less bloody, to be sure. Look here, let‘s celebrate having two lovely living girls here. Stop your gory stories. Let‘s listen to them while our own warriors are gone, shall we?“

„As I said – women rule and decide…“ Samuel smiled and kissed his wife.

„So, Chiara, Marzia, what are your plans after graduation?“, Annella asked while she passed a platter of olives and grilled eggplant around. Chiara grimaced in disgust. Being reminded of school in the middle of summer wasn‘t to her taste. Ladling some antipasti onto her plate, she started:

„Well, first, I have to pass my exams at all. I‘m not that great at school. Not like Marzia. Or Elio. But my grades don‘t matter as I want to become a model.“

„How so?“, Samuel asked with raised eyebrows. „Models can‘t work in their job forever. Like ballet dancers. A plan B would be sensible.“

„I can always work in my father‘s firm“, Chiara shrugged. Everyone knew that her family owned one of the biggest enterprises for premium bespoke furniture in Italy. Chiara would actually never have to work to have money.

„But a degree in law or economics might be helpful?“, Annella suggested. 

„My brothers can do that. I rather want to become a model.“

Samuel sighed: „Mafalda‘s eggplants are the best, aren‘t they, darling?“

Annella nodded: „It‘s the thyme from our garden… So, Marzia, what about you?“

Marzia slowly savoured the green olive she had just put in her mouth before answering:

„I‘m thinking about becoming a photographer. If they take me. I have to prepare a portfolio. I need to have it ready only next spring, but“ – Marzia dapped her lips with the yellow napkin and groped for her bag – „I already start to collect ideas. If you want to have a look at these – I‘ll make you copies, this ist just the first batch I developed yesterday…“

Shyly, Marzia offered Annella the stack of photos she had taken from an envelope. Instantly, Annella‘s face lighted up:

„But that‘s out piccino! Samuel, look! Oh, Marzia, they are gorgeous!“

Annella slowly turned the photos of Elio at the piano, smiling widely and with large, moist eyes. „Com‘il e bello, no?“ Samuel nodded. He seemed moved also. They clearly missed their son, even if he had been gone for ten hours only.

„Marzia, you captured him perfectly.“

„She‘ll do my portfolio also, won‘t you?“ Chiara tried to turn the attention back to herself.

„Yes, of course. I‘m always on the lookout for victims“, Marzia smiled. „Speaking of – may I take photos of you two also? But – not staged ones, just photos of you at work. Mr Perlman in his study, you, Mrs Perlman, at your desk when working on a translation.“ The Perlmans nodded. „I also want to capture Anchise in the garden. And I had an idea only today, when I started to miss Elio…“ Marzia stopped. The sincerity with which she had admitted her feelings moved Annella. „If you‘re comfortable with it. That is. I was thinking about taking pictures around the villa without Elio. Elio missing. His spots – the piano, his desk, his bike even – but without him. But I feel I can take them only when he‘s really not here. I‘d find no other way to put my longing, my missing him in the pictures if he were around the corner.“

Annella reached over the desk to press Marzia‘s hand. Samuel said: 

„Feel free to spend as much time here as you need. We‘ll tell Mafalda.“

„And how do you plan to portray his absence?“, Annella asked.

Marzia rolled the olives on her plate and said after some seconds: 

„Maybe through light. Light instead of Elio. You know, because of his name…“

Annella nodded: „A beautiful idea.“

„But I‘d have to follow the sun through your house. I‘d be a nuisance for hours!“

„You are no nuisance, dear. See, Samuel – that‘s what I mean with having a daughter. She wants to follow the sun through our house. Isn‘t that lovely?“

„We‘ll get you a female student next year, I promise“, he smiled and held her hand affectionately.

„Speaking of“, Chiara chimed in, „would you give me Oliver‘s address? I wanted to ask him today before they left. Who would have expected the coach was on time?“

„When you don‘t need it, it‘s on time…“ Samuel joked. „Of course I can give you his address. But it might be a temporary one, the one in Manhattan, I mean. Would you like his parent‘s address also?“

Chiara nodded enthusiastically. As Mafalda just started to remove the plates of the first course, Samuel got up and nodded to Chiara: „Follow me. Let‘s get them right now, as long as there is light.“

The gravel crunched when Samuel and Chiara disappeared into the house. Only the sound of the cicadas was left, soothing, monotone and the familiar background of summer evenings. Annella smiled at Marzia over one of the candles. She didn‘t mind being silent together, so she didn‘t initiate a conversation but just waited if Marzia had something on her mind. Soon enough, Marzia started:

„I‘m afraid Elio might come back… changed.“

„Changed?“

Marzia nodded: „Oliver meant a lot to him. I‘m afraid he might suffer.“

Annella scrutinised her silently before answering:

„I‘m afraid so, too. They had a very special friendship.“

Marzia nodded. They both looked over the silent court yard. The shadows grew deeper, the light of the candles turned yellow.

„I just hope they are happy now. I‘m glad they have those last days all to themselves“, Annella added. „But when Elio comes back, he needs friends here.“

„I‘ll be there for him. There was a time not too long ago when I had hoped I could be more than a friend. But – he is completely smitten with Oliver. Being a friend is better than nothing, isn‘t it?“

Annella nodded. After some seconds, she said: „I don‘t want to bore you with stories of my youth, but – I was in a similar situation like you. My heart was broken, and on first impulse, I didn‘t want to see my love ever again. But we managed to stay friends. I‘m even the godmother of their eldest child, imagine! We still sort of spend our life together, know how the other one is doing, visit regularly… Love can end in disaster and pieces. Friendship lasts. If you and Elio manage to transform what you feel for each other into a friendship, you‘d have something very precious.“

Marzia sighed: „It hurts.“

„He‘ll hurt, too. He needs you when he comes back“, Annella said urgently. They heard Samuel‘s and Chiara‘s chatter coming closer. „Does Chiara know?“, Annella asked.

„No“, Marzia shook her head.

„So it‘s our secret, all right?“, Annella smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would take some more years for the books Samuel suggests to be written, and I have to admit I havn't read them yet:
> 
> Pat Barker, The Silence of the Girls
> 
> Madeline Miller, Circe
> 
> and tessiebear81 suggested Atwood's Penelopiad (which I don't know yet) - thank you! 😘


	5. Midnight in Bergamo

A few hours later, night enveloping them, Elio rested his head on Oliver‘s naked chest. They were as entangled as they could be, arms and fingers and legs and hearts, despite the noticeable heat in their small hotel room. To his delight, Oliver had offered him one more erotic carte blanche for his copying slavery. The twenty seconds in the storage room didn‘t count according to him – a remark that caused Elio to shower him with outraged cries, stating that it did count and had been memorable. And he‘d choose it again any time. But he graciously accepted the offer and asked Oliver for really slow sex now, long and slow, and Oliver inside him. „Andante?“ asked Oliver, licking Elio‘s earlobe. „Molto andante. E poi lento assai“, Elio confirmed. „Let‘s see what I can do for you“, Oliver murmured while sprinkling a trail of kisses down Elio‘s chest and stomach.

Their love-making had been heartbreakingly slow. Oliver kept his promise, and Elio, still sated from the afternoon, managed to endure the „lento“ he had asked for even longer than he himself had believed. Until a change of tempo became inevitable. Clawing into each other, pressing closer still and holding on to their slick bodies as if it were the last time, Elio tried to stifle his gasps by biting into Oliver‘s neck. They hadn‘t forgotten the open window. Exploding silently and inwards was even more exciting than crying out their lust loudly. Sharing only with the loved one gave an exciting, forbidden quality to their love. They had practiced this well back home in the villa. Their love was relatively silent on the outside, but life-changing, world-shattering, overwhelming inside.

They cooled down only slowly. The room, like the library, had stored all summer‘s heat. Nights back home were cooler. The moistness of the garden, the distant murmur of the fountain, the cool country air made falling asleep easier. Noises in Bergamo were different, too. No rustling leaves or cries of nightbirds, but clattering vespas and people returning late from dinner, talking animatedly and carelessly. Elio cherished every second of it, anyway. He had come to love the calm and fulfillment after an orgasm. Just a few days ago, his only goal had been to have an orgasm. And then the next one, as soon as possible. Now, he enjoyed the deep, sensual satisfaction afterwards almost as much. He rearranged his head on Oliver‘s sweaty chest and started to draw circles on his ribs, his stomach and over his protruding hipbones. How he loved them. Now he could touch them, as often as he wished. This afternoon in the library, the need of Oliver under his hands had almost driven him crazy. When he had had to slave away for Oliver, he was impatient and frustrated. But in retrospect, the hours spent in the old building were amongst the most precious they had had together. Definitely among the only ones one could talk about in front of strangers… Or parents… Elio smiled and wriggled a bit. Oliver felt the mouvement on him and asked:

„What?“

Elio turned his head and languidly kissed the first patch of skin that happened to be in front of his lips:

„I was thinking about the library. How impatient I was. When we were there, I only wanted to get out.“

„You were horny as hell!“, Oliver rumpled Elio‘s sweaty curls. Elio raised himself and kissed Oliver‘s warm, soft lips:

„How could I not, with you next to me? But now, I want to preserve this hour. I want to be able to come back to it in my memory. Because we were close. Collaborating on something that is important to you. Entering each other‘s minds spaces… That‘s true intimacy, isn‘t it?“

Oliver nodded in the dark and stroked Elio‘s bony shoulder.

„May I ask something of you?“

„You‘re not ready for sex again?“, Oliver asked incredulously.

„No“, Elio chuckled and bit Oliver‘s shoulder with open lips. Salty. Sweaty and salty. „I was talking about true intimacy, remember? Do you think – can you get me a copy of your book once it‘s finished? I‘ll pay for it. Of course.“

„Goose.“ Oliver hugged him strongly. „Of course you get a copy. I‘ll write something in it for you. About this afternoon.“

„About blowjobs in monasteries?“

Oliver looked into Elio‘s eyes: „If you want?“

Elio grinned, kissed him and curled himself back into his spot on Oliver‘s shoulder.

„I also liked the smell in the library. The dusty, woody smell.“

„Must be the gorgeous wooden beams at the ceiling“, Oliver suggested.

„Do European libraries smell differently than yours?“, Elio asked. Oliver took some time to reflect before he said:

„This one did, definitely. Especially with the sweet little peachy thing next to me…“

Elio giggled. When he continued, he was serious again:

„No, I mean it. I want to capture these hours. Like embedded in amber. Forever radiant and warm and full of love for each other and Heraclitus. Just the two of us sitting next to each other at a table. In a calm, yellowish light. Forever.“

„Do you think this is what your poet meant with „between always and never“? Suspended in this special, timeless space, like a dragonfly in amber?“

„Not sure…“ Elio mumbled. „Too real, maybe.“

„But we are real. I will remember us like this, then. Encased in a large piece of amber. Like a paperweight on my desk. Whenever I look at it, I‘ll feel you and smell you and see you.“

Elio felt his heart clench. They were on borrowed time, now even more than a week before. Last Wednesday, he still had counted the days. Now he was down to hours, and soon it would be minutes. Elio raised himself onto an elbow, searched for Oliver‘s eyes in the dark and said:

„Let‘s think of this afternoon when things get hard, shall we?“

*

Fingers of lights, changing and moving when two cars passed, slowly lighted the ceiling. The music in one of the cars became a low, unrecognizable thump. Elio had almost fallen asleep when he heard Oliver: 

„Part of me wants to remember you as you were this afternoon. So young and needy and horny. Exploding right into my face.“

Elio rearranged himself and put his head onto the cushion, facing Oliver: „Sorry. What you did was just – too good.“

„But that‘s my point – it wasn‘t good yet! I hadn‘t even started! And I realized right now: I want to see you get older. I want to see you mature. Want to have the chance to give you a really heavenly ten - minute – blowjob. Because“ - he stroked Elio‘s curls – „it‘s a pleasure for me also.“

Elio pursed his lips, closed his eyes and sighed. He felt Oliver‘s velvet, hot mouth on himself again.

„Try it again later. Like – much, much later. In forty years or so. Your lips just kill me. I‘m sorry but I can‘t last if you do that to me.“

Oliver nodded gravely: „That‘s what I mean. Forty years from now.“

A distant siren passed through the night. Oliver hadn‘t heard one in weeks.

„You hear that all the time in New York“, he said sleepily. 

„Do you?“

Oliver nodded.

„It‘s strange. You know so much about my life here, you know our place and when we eat and when Anchise mows the lawn, and I now nothing about your‘s“.

Oliver sighed: „Not more than a student dig, actually. Your home is a palace compared to it. It‘s a tiny studio with noisy neighbours, lots of sirens because Mount Sinai is nearby, looking onto a back yard with rusty fire ladders and giant air condition systems obscuring the sky. The bathroom is minuscule and windowless and always damp. And mustard – yellow.“

„Sounds lovely. Can I see it some day?“ Elio asked.

„Yes“, Oliver whispered tenderly. „I‘d love to have you there. Because it‘s not only bad. I have rosemary on the windowsill. A very comfy bed.“ „Mmmh“, Elio sighed. „And my parents are far away.“ Oliver played with Elio‘s curls. The green of Elio‘s eyes he loved so much was undistinguishable in the dark. He swallowed. He didn‘t want to spoil Elio. Mess him up, make him dependent on something that might turn out to be impossible to live once their normal life started again. If only Elio was older. Lived closer. And yet… Here he was, the most sublime creature Oliver had ever met. Beautiful and mesmerising in so many ways, and just the perfect companion for him. In the library, in the bed, when jogging – everything was better with Elio. Tracing his full lips with a finger, he said:

„We never talked about that, but…“

Elio, having sensed his seriousness and having come to the same conclusion, raised himself on one elbow and asked slowly:

„...when can we meet again?“

Oliver smiled and nodded. His soulmate, indeed.

„Can we? Meet at all, I mean?“, he asked.

„Yes. I‘d have burst into your dingy apartment without forewarning if you hadn‘t invited me. I‘ll be in New York at the end of October.“

„You never told me!“, Oliver got up and sat cross-legged opposite Elio. He reached for the bottle of water on the floor, offered it to Elio and took a long swig himself while Elio arranged himself at the headboard, one porcelain shoulder glowing in the dark.

„Yeah. We have a holiday here, All Saints. School is off for a few days, and I‘ll prolong it even more because I have to introduce myself to piano teachers in the States. You know, before I knew you, I always wanted to try to get into Curtis, in Philadelphia, to study with Horszowski. He‘s really old, something like close to hundred, but I want to play like him. Honest. Sincere. You know. He represents a different world, different values. I want to learn from him as long as he‘s still here. And my teacher in Milan used to study with him when he taught in Italy in the Forties. So, the circle would close, you know. If they accept me at all.“

„Is it hard?“

Elio nodded: „Very. Competition is ghastly among pianists.“ Elio sighed, grasped for the bottle in Oliver‘s hands again and continued:

„But since I know you, I‘m thinking about New York City. And Juillard, maybe.“

„But Philly is not far. You shouldn‘t change your plans because of me.“

„How far is it?“

„Less than ninety minutes by train. We could manage.“

„We?“, Elio repeated delighted, leaned in and beamed at Oliver. „You‘d visit me?“

„Of course! I bet dorm rooms in Philadelphia are much bigger than my whole apartment!“ He kissed Elio softly. „Of course I‘d come also. If we commute, we have to share the burden.“

„We can read on the train. Write. The time‘s not lost.“

„We should use it well because once the weekend starts, we won‘t leave the bed.“

„We‘ll fuck all day?“

„We‘ll fuck all day“, Oliver confirmed. „Nights also.“

Elio kissed him messily. Serious again, he said:

„I‘ll try as many entrance exams as I can. I don‘t know if I‘ll be accepted at all, so I should keep all options open. I‘ll try Boston also. Boston‘s not too far?“, he asked. Oliver shook his head. 

Elio let himself sink limply onto Oliver‘s chest. Oliver wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close – this was his reflex, whenever Elio mock – collapsed on him, a mouvement as well-practised and tender as Elio opening his legs for him. Elio chuckled contentedly, caressed Oliver‘s back and said sleepily:

„Tomorrow, we‘ll buy a cafetiera for you, all right?“

Oliver nodded with his chin on Elio‘s head:

„And as much of this coffee your parents drink as I can fit into my bag.“

Elio let himself fall back into the bed and tore Oliver with him:

„It‘s Illy. I‘ll bring you some more when I visit in November.“

Oliver kissed his cheeks, his sleepy eyes, his lips before settling himself on his side and drawing Elio in his arms. Elio would come to New York in November. He still couldn‘t believe it.

******

At the same time, Marzia, unable to sleep because of the late after-dinner coffee she had enjoyed at the Perlmans, angrily tried to kill the fifth mosquito of the evening in her room. She really should turn off the light now. One last glance at the poem by Antonia Pozzi she had just read. She sighed inwardly. How Elio had chosen exactly the right words for her. He knew her, maybe more than he was aware of himself. She caressed the page, used Elio‘s photo as a bookmark and scrutinized his mellow, large eyes on the black-and-white print. Were they still awake? Did they…? She stopped her inward monologue. No use of tormenting herself. Of course they had. Tucking the book under her pillow, she turned and grasped for the switch of the lamp.


	6. The barren years

Elio‘s visit to New York in autumn, Oliver‘s stay at the villa over christmas and New Year were their last carefree and peaceful days together. Starting in early spring, during a stretch of impatiently endured physical remoteness, too few phone calls and too many handwritten letters that hardly replaced kisses and caresses and more, the stars started to conspire against the lovers. While Elio practiced as if his life depended on it and prepared at the same time for his A-levels, Oliver got an offer from Berkeley for the next academic year. He discussed it at length with Samuel who, despite foreseeing his son‘s ache, encouraged him not to pass a chance like that. While Elio was in Philadelphia to audition for Curtis, Annella was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was still in a manageable stage, but the news shuttered the Perlman family and added to Elio‘s dilemma. Having a lover overseas, being divided not only by a large, deep sea but also a whole continent, seemed suddenly not as urgent as in autumn. With some luck, Oliver might be here longer still. His mother wouldn‘t. 

Even if he had played as well as he could, still unaffected by the knowledge of Annella‘s illness, Elio didn‘t pass the audition. Also not the ones in New York and Boston. He was told that he was still very young and should try again next year. He passed the entrance exams in Milan, though, and decided to stay on in Europe for the time being. There was not really an alienation from Oliver, but the few times they had spent with Oliver‘s friends and colleagues in New York had showed a considerable discrepancy in age and expectations. Seven years were a lot in Elio‘s age. He always felt too young, too silly to be taken for full. He was surrounded by graduate students or fully fledged Ph.D.s and hadn‘ even started university himself. Whispered jokes about his beauty, about his youthfulness didn‘t make it better. He felt like a decorative appendix to radiant Oliver, a mere addition. Not a person of his own. Oliver behaved differently also, at times remote, at times lost in his own thoughts, and Elio started to question himself if it had been true love or rather lust that had driven them to maintain their complicated long-distance relationship.

They had never defined what they were. They never called each other „boyfriend“, even if traveling thousands of miles to see each other. And suddenly, they had gone from the level of utmost intimacy, of being so interchangeable that they called each other by their names, to being casual friends who talked too rarely on the phone and even found reasons to skip planned trips to see each other. Elio‘s heart ached, but apart from heartfelt letters, he could do nothing to make the situation any better. California was too far to explain the regular expenses to his parents.

After two years in Milan, Elio transferred to Paris. Studying at the Conservatory with Jacques Rouvier was a dream that had replaced his desire to study with Horszowski. When he had barely settled in in winter, he got a short phone call from Oliver, businesslike almost, asking him if he had heard about the new disease afflicting mainly homosexuals and begging him to never sleep with anyone without protection. „So you do, whenever you have sex? Use protection, I mean?“ Elio asked. He had believed them to be a couple still. „I do“, Oliver said reluctantly after an almost unbearably long silence. „I haven‘t all the time, but I got tested. Believe me, the three days I had to wait for the result were the longest in my life.“ By then, silent tears already streamed down Elio‘s face. They were not tears of relief but of utter destruction. Oliver seemed to see their friendship as an open relationship. They had never talked about it. Elio was devastated, managed a short „Thanks for telling me, I‘ll take care.“ and hung up. He stared out of his window, seeing nothing of the white wintery Paris sky. He was a goose indeed. How could he have expected glorious Oliver to live like a monk in San Francisco? They never had promised each other anything. Maybe it all burned down to lust and one sensual Italian summer. Obviously, their relationship didn‘t have the potential for more.

The following weeks were the worst in Elio‘s life so far. Good news from his mother‘s recovery couldn‘t heal the blow Oliver had given him. Marzia was the first one to be concerned, started to call Elio regularly and invited him for dinner as often as he accepted in her small student place. He had told her early on what troubled him. She had held him wordlessly and caressed his hair while he clung silently onto her. They had spent many cozy evenings on Marzia‘s old sofa, sipping wine, talking about their studies or listening to music, but this was the most intimate one. When Elio kissed her cheek and asked if she could hold him a bit longer, Marzia nodded, patted her lap and invited Elio to stretch out with his head in her lap. She played with his curls, caressed his fingers and was just there for him. Saved his life, as he later called it.

Despite Marzia and loving parents, the next years were barren years in Elio‘s life. He concentrated all his energy on his studies. He missed Oliver. Memories of him suffused his playing and gave it the quality audiences soon became to appreciate as characteristic for Elio.


	7. I have loved you for the last time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for more heartbreak ahead. These are the dark chapters - but I promise, things will lighten up soon!

Three years later, when Elio was about to graduate, Oliver was at a conference in Paris and asked well in advance if they could meet. They hadn‘t seen each other all the time. Elio had heard about Oliver, his rise in Berkeley, his recent publication through is father, but never had felt the need to get in contact with him. Despite short flings with classmates or casual strangers, Elio lived a chaste life. He couldn‘t forget Oliver. He was afraid and overjoyed at the same time to see him again, even invited him to stay at his tiny place if he didn‘t mind sharing the bed (he had added without being too flirtatious, he hoped). Oliver accepted, came, beamed like the sun itself, tanned and with golden hair. He was a headturning sight even in a place like Paris, used to good looking people of all sorts. Elio felt proud and humbled at the same time. Oliver behaved distant and Elio felt like an ugly duckling. Oliver had changed, was more serious than before. All playfulness was completely gone when he started to talk about AIDS after a simple pasta dinner at Elio‘s place. It seemed like he needed confession time, needed someone to share the burden with. So many of his friends and colleagues had started to get sick or languished in palliative care for an end that would be relief. He told about tantalising itches and peeling dry skin, cotton gloves the sick were given in order not to touch themselves. Even worse were the cases with respiratory afflictions, suffocating inhumanely slowly. Death was a welcome friend for the poor souls on this warden.

„Do you go there? How do you know so many details?“ Elio asked in shattered disbelief.

„I volunteer there. Just, you know, offering a drink of water, massaging feet, listening. Sometimes writing letters to parents that never get sent. You can‘t believe how lonely those guys are. Sometimes, I‘m just holding hands. With complete strangers.“ Oliver swallowed. „Who would have believed that sex could turn into something dangerous and lethal? What we had, back then at your parent‘s place, was pure paradise. We just didn‘t know back then.“

„You never know when you‘re in paradise. Only after you lose it.“ Elio looked at Oliver gravely. „I‘ll never forget what we had. And if I live to be ninety.“

„Me too.“ Oliver laid his hand on Elio‘s. „Are you all right? Have you been careful?“

Elio nodded and admitted, averting his eyes: „I‘ve not been very active. I missed you.“

Oliver stared at him almost as if in disbelief: 

„You still miss me?“ Elio nodded and looked away. 

„I didn‘t know. I‘m sorry, Elio.“

This night, they didn‘t touch, even if Elio‘s bed was narrow.

The following three days were spent strolling through the city by foot. They avoided the usual sights but enjoyed visiting small, quirky museums like Balzac‘s house or Moreau‘s former atelier. They browsed crowded, musty bookshops and sat on a bench at the Place des Vosges like an old couple, giving their tired feet a break. Oliver was delighted by the various farmer‘s markets in the different quartiers. To Elio‘s surprise, he loved to cook. They rarely ate out, but Oliver splurged on fresh produce, seafood and cheese and cooked delicious meals in Elio‘s tiny kitchen. Once, they invited Marzia and her boyfriend to dinner. 

After the initial hesitation, they had found back to their former ease and playfulness even. Still, they didn‘t touch or kiss. This facet of their relationship seemed over and not to be reached again. Until Elio couldn‘t stand it any more and gently touched Oliver‘s shoulder on their last night together. They had gone to bed as usual, read a bit, Elio in Oliver‘s newest book about the Pre-Socratics he had brought as a gift, saying good night with the tiniest peck on the cheeks like in the last days. Oliver turned his back to Elio and didn‘t move. But Elio felt that he was still awake.

Turning slowly, Elio reached for Oliver‘s shoulder. When he was not rejected, he started to caress it through the t-shirt, slowly wandering deeper and stroking the whole of Oliver‘s back. Elio felt him taking a deep breath and heard him sigh softly.

„Do you mind?“, he asked. Oliver shook his head and whispered: „No.“

Elio slid closer, let his fingers wander down Oliver‘s waist and stopped at his hip. Oliver still didn‘t move. Elio kissed the little he could reach of his neck above the shirt, pressed himself with the whole length of his body against Oliver and stroked his hip and thigh. Oliver must have felt his erection because he moaned once more, turned abruptly and searched for Elio‘s lips.

„Isn‘t kissing dangerous?“ Elio drew back. Oliver closed his eyes and huffed exasperated:

„It is. Everything intimate is. Everything bringing joy is dangerous now.“

Elio sighed. These had been so special seconds, to feel the former spark flying, to feel Oliver responding and warming up to his caresses. He felt they were on to something, and he wanted Oliver desperately – and it should be over before they even started?

„I got tested sex months ago again, just to be sure. But I always use protection. Always. So, if you have no doubts about yourself, we can kiss?“

„I never got tested, but I lead a rather monastic life.“

„Don‘t tell me monasteries are necessarily a chaste plase“, Oliver grinned, reminding him of Bergamo. Elio smiled also. He was glad the grave mood that had accompanied Oliver all those days had lifted. „Come here“, Oliver whispered and met Elio‘s lips. They both sighed delightedly when feeling the other‘s soft lips again. Kissing each other was the most natural thing in the world, as was getting naked under the covers, touching and caressing every inch of their bodies. When Oliver demanded „Fuck me, Oliver“, Elio bit his neck and sucked it while caressing the roundness of his butt. Oliver moaned and tried to bite Elio back: „I need you now. Please.“ Oliver begging was a new thing. It turned Elio on, and it made him all soft inside. When Oliver turned on his side again and offered him his splendid peachy butt, Elio slid down to kiss it briefly before searching for a condom and lube. They hadn‘t slept together in three years. He wanted it to be unforgettable.

Afterwards, when they lay side by side on their backs on rumpled sheets, Elio played with Oliver‘s hand and asked:

„What are we?“

„That‘s a dangerous question to ask a philosophy professor.“

„No, I mean – what are we? We two?“

Oliver turned his head to face him and said:

„Lovers?“

„No“, Elio shook his head. „Lovers can‘t have an ocean and a complete continent between them.“

„But this, right now? This was more than – just sex.“

Elio nodded. They looked at each other. Oliver leaned in to kiss Elio‘s mouth, took his fragile hand and put it right onto his heart.

„I don‘t know what we are, but this is where you are. And will forever be. In the deepest chamber of my heart. Cor…“

Before he could finish, Elio sat up all of a sudden and said hoarsely:

„I can‘t do this anymore, Oliver. I can‘t take it. A great fuck every three years, complete silence in between - I mean, I didn‘t even know if you‘re alive anymore! What am I – just an old flame you remember whenever you‘ve a conference in Europe?“

Oliver seemed shocked. He got up also, touched Elio‘s shoulder but was shrugged off like a pesky insect. Elio even got his feet out of the bed and seemed ready to leave.

„Elio“, Oliver said softly. „Calm down. You‘re all upset because…“

„Yes, why? Would you define it, please? Because I feel lost. And lonely. And sad. So, so sad if I realize we are made for each other. I had the best sex of my life with you. Nothing compares to it, nothing ever will probably. I know that there is this person on earth, living at the same time as me. And I shall be content with one night every three years?“ He huffed and turned his head. „I can‘t do this anymore, Oliver.“

A heavy silence hung in the dark room. Elio‘s marble skin was faintly visible. He sat hunched on the side of the bed. Suddenly, he ran a hand through his curls, got up and said:

„I‘ll go sleep at Marzia‘s.“

Oliver surprised him by stopping him with two strong hands. Elio felt them on the bare skin of his back, around his waist. He struggled to get free only to be held stronger. „Give me a break!“, he cried.

„No“, Oliver said loudly. „I won‘t let you go.“ Elio stopped and looked down at him. He felt his anger melt. Worrying his lips, he slid down and let Oliver catch him. „You‘re too much under the impression of… what we did right now, to go anywhere. Don‘t be a goose. Come here.“ Oliver cradled Elio‘s head at his shoulder and stroked his hair. „This is my last night here. I want to spend it with you.“ Elio looked at him sadly. He nodded. He wanted to be near Oliver also.

But, as in the nights prior, they didn‘t touch anymore. They were polite and businesslike in the morning. Elio made coffee and toast for Oliver, but didn‘t bring him to the airport. Their farewell at Elio‘s door was silent and wordless. They looked at each other and nodded briefly before Elio closed the door from the inside.

Elio laundered Billowy one last time. He had worn the shirt all the time, even if he hadn‘t heard of Oliver. It was the last straw, a naive symbol of hope. He hung it on a hanger on his tiny balcony and watched it swaying and dancing in a breeze. Elio caressed the wrought iron of his balcony and looked lost in thoughts over the roofs of Paris. He‘d put the shirt away at the very back of his closet. The Billowy era was over. Oliver would never stand up for him.


	8. Intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BumbleBeer, this is for you. You know why.

Before Elio had any chance to get melancholy, fate offered him exciting new prospects. Two weeks after Oliver had left, he met Damjan, a journalist from Yugoslawia, when going out with Marzia and her friends. Damjan was about his age and worked for a major French newspaper. Marzia knew him because the paper occasionally bought her photos. She still longed for a full-time position, Damjan had hit the jackpot right off university. He was handsome, witty and intelligent and immediately smitten with Elio. After their first night out, he walked Elio to his apartment in Montmarte, even if he lived near Bastille. They talked all the time. It was a similar intellectual attraction that had formed a strong bond with Oliver also. Elio was not in love, but grew to like him and seek Damjan‘s presence. Over the next few days, he was courted like never before in his life. He felt desired and loved – a state he had never before enjoyed. Damjan‘s affection was sincere. Elio feared to play with him, to accept something he couldn‘t give as wholeheartedly in return. Oliver was still in his heart, despite his best resolutions, and it almost felt like cheating on Damjan when he gave in now. But, as he had complained about to Oliver, his life passed and he didn‘t get any younger. Finally, he gave in. Damjan was the happiest man on earth and visibly proud of Elio.

At last, Elio experienced a very serene and happy stretch in his life. They never shared an apartment but spent as much time as possible together. Lonely nights were a rare thing and happened only when Damjan was away on a job. Having met at the height of the AIDS crisis, it went without speaking that they were faithful to each other. And they were content with it. Damjan was not Oliver, but he showered Elio with affection, was inventive and creative in bed and always ready to discuss books and philosophy and music. The perfect companion. And yet… If Elio was honest with himself, there was something lacking. He couldn‘t put his finger on it, but something was awkward. Marzia told him to stop comparing everything to his one great love as no one could hold up against the kind of first love he had experienced with Oliver. He had two options: stay single all his life, lament the departure of his first love and become boring and unattractive to everyone, like a widow who lost her soldier fiance when being 19, or – take the plunge and give someone else a chance. Elio ruffled her hair and admitted she was probably right. He just couldn‘t command his heart to feel it.

But they stayed together in stormy times. Cries for freedom and peaceful revolutions started to spread in several socialist European countries. Damjan‘s home country was no exception. He came from the northern part of Yugoslavia which would soon be called Slovenia again. After Elio had gotten used to Damjan‘s presence in his life, he had to report about what was later called the Ten – Day – War, some strained days in June of 1991, leading to Slovenia‘s independence in October. Elio registered with surprise that he was deeply concerned about Damjan‘s well – being. Maybe he would grow to love him some day? When they were finally able to talk on the phone, he felt relief and gratefulness. The bone deep flood of warmth he felt anytime when someone mentioned Oliver didn‘t reach his heart, though.

After Slovenia‘s independence, it became easier to travel there. Elio had always hoped to see Damjan‘s village and meet his mother. They had spent marvelous summer and spring breaks at the Perlman villa, celebrating love, life and the ongoing stability of Annella. But Damian was eager to give back to Elio and introduce him to his life. Lending a car from Elio‘s parents, they took a leisurely trip across Northern Italy. Damjan‘s family lived just north of the Italian border, some thirty kilometers from Trieste. Damjan, always interested in history and recent political events, didn‘t mind taking two morbid detours to visit the sites of two of the most lethal battles of World War I at the Piave and Isonzo. Everyone else would have preferred Venice or picturesque Udine for sightseeing, but Elio finally wanted to see the places he had heard so much of. And, to be honest, he wanted to have some seconds to think of another lover with whom he had talked about the battle of Piave, many, many years ago. 

Damjan‘s mother was recently widowed. She was a tall, skinny woman, much more serious than her son and reluctant to look Elio openly into the eyes for a long time. Even if Damjan had told her about his predilections early on, she had never accepted this side of him and had hoped it to be a passing whim. Since her husband was dead, she longed for grandchildren even more. She was not openly hostile, but Elio didn‘t feel at ease in her presence. Her habit to prepare an extra room for Elio and ignoring that the bed was rarely touched didn‘t make it easier. 

After three years of casual but sincere friendship, Damjan started to get restless. The position at the Paris paper had been excellent for his career, but he felt he was needed now in his quickly changing home country. He wanted to witness everything in person. He talked to Elio about it, frankly, and added as frankly that he didn‘t believe in long-distance relationships. Elio nodded. He had just accepted an exciting offer to teach in Seoul, procured to him by his teacher who thought it would complement his resumé and personal growth ideally. Korea was far away, but Elio longed for a change. His mother had been doing well after having adhered consistently to the therapies her doctors had suggested. He dared to leave her for the two years of his engagement. The time he had spent with Damjan had been pleasant and cozy, but maybe too cozy. It didn‘t go anywhere. When they looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously, they grinned. Everything was all right. They would split amicably and stay friends. So much so that they planned a last summer trip together, one more carefree road trip between Crema and Damjan‘s place. 

On their last evening with Damjan‘s mother, they sat on the veranda after dinner and watched twilight descending. His mother returned with a bowl of apricots from their own trees as dessert and suddenly stopped in the door. She gestured for Elio and Damjan to come and pointed at a snow white little piece of fabric, dotted with perfect black specks. Elio had to look twice in the dimming light to see what it was: a butterfly? A moth? The softest, tiniest bat?

„An ermine moth. They are rare.“, Damjan‘s mother explained. She seemed worried.

„Look at that!“, Damjan cried. „I never saw something like that. She looks like out of the „Great Gatsby“, doesn‘t she, with her dramatic fur coat!“

„How perfect and pure she is“, Elio admired the tiny animal.

„It means change“, Damjan‘s mother said ominously. „Something will change for one of us.“

„Change can be something good, mamica“, Damjan soothed her. He felt Damjan‘s hands lovingly stroking his back. Elio looked at the small marvel of a butterfly. Indeed, change was good. Stretching your wings, exploring new atmospheres, letting yourself be lifted up by the air itself. He grasped for Damjan‘s fingers and quickly squeezed them.

They parted affectionately and without any grudges but reassurances to stay in touch. Both believed it when they said so. Damjan stayed behind at his mother‘s place for some more days before setting up home in Ljubljana. Elio drove back to his parents alone, leaving after lunch and taking all the scenic routes he could think of. He drove as close to the sea as possible, wanting to absorb as much of Italy as he could before going to Asia. He stopped for picturesque places and special spots he had visited with Damjan. It was a drive down memory lane: here, they had stopped for iced coffee also. In Aquileia, Damjan had found the beautiful snail shell he had stored on his desk in Paris. Here, farther up the tiny icy river, they had had impatient, hungry sex in the open. (Here, on the cliffs, slow sex in the car while night was falling and the sky around them turned from glowing orange to an unreal radiant lavender). Time was a strange thing. It was given, generously and in abundance, but once it had passed, you couldn‘t have it back. Try as you might. Memories, tangible little objects were an all – too – human effort to store and keep it. But in the end, there was just the moment right now. No use chasing memories or regretting missed opportunities – the „now“ was what mattered. 

When Elio stopped for a sandwich and some more coffee in Montichiari later in the afternoon, he felt at peace with himself and his world. He had closed a chapter in his life consciously and lovingly. Something new was about to start. He didn‘t know if it meant a new love also and didn‘t expect anything. Maybe he was married to music first and foremost and didn‘t need an actual person in his life. What had scared him ten years ago seemed a sensible thing today. He was whole without needing another half.

He drove on in peace. The sun had gotten lower in the sky. Taking the small countryroad south in Crema, he finally had the sun at the side – driving west all day, he had had it in front and in his eyes. But this was what happened when you followed the sun: you got blinded by it‘s radiance and power. Blinded and hurt like a moth. Oliver had had those sun-like qualities, and Elio knew better now than to let himself burn again. The light above the summer meadows turned soft and golden. A delicious scent of hay and freshly cut grass wafted through the open windows. Just some minutes from his parent‘s house, he realized: he had everything he wanted. He didn‘t need anything, didn‘t have to struggle or fight. His life was fine as it was.

**********

His parents showered him with hugs and kisses as if he had been gone for weeks instead of days. Mafalda feigned business while stirring in a large pot emitting delicious smells, offered him her cheek graciously and admonished him not to linger at the piano too long, they would eat soon. She knew him well: Elio‘s first way after some days without a piano was without doubt the old Bösendorfer. As soon as he had delved into some Schumann, the phone rang. Damjan? He heard his father‘s quick steps and his „I‘ll get it, I‘ll get it“ and played on. He hadn‘t come far when his father appeared in the door:

„It‘s Oliver, for you. He wants to know why you go to Korea.“


	9. Dinner in Milano

„You jerk“, he heard Oliver‘s warm voice over the phone. Still sending shivers down his spine. Elio was annoyed with himself:

„Nice to meet you, too“, he replied a touch too icily. Silence. He heard Oliver draw in a breath before he said more seriously:

„Sorry, Elio. It‘s good to hear you.“

Elio played with the cord and looked over his shoulder. The smooth tiles under his bare feet in the hall were suddenly cold. When he saw that his father had left, he said under his voice:

„There was a time I was your goose. Why the degradation?“

Oliver chuckled. Elio noticed with relief that he just felt grateful and giddy to hear his voice again. Their last awkward night together, the long silence in between was forgiven and a thing of the past.

„A goose is always around the corner. Living in the garden or nearby. A jerk is someone going to Asia when I come to Oxford.“

„What?“, Elio‘s voice went up. „You‘re coming to Oxford?“

„Yes. I‘ll start in autumn.“

„No.“ Silence but for a static whirring across the Atlantic. „Where are you?“, Elio asked.

„Newport. My mother‘s place. My father died last winter and I‘m helping her to sort through things.“

„Oh, I had no idea – I‘m sorry, Oliver.“

„Don‘t. We never were close. I actually feel freer than ever before in my life.“

„Oh.“

„I wanted to talk to you about this, too. But – what is this nonsense with Korea?“

Elio felt a sting. Of course, teaching at a renowned, centuries-old European university was more valuable than spreading the love for Western music on a different continent? „Listen. Only because you prefer a male – centric, snobbish, dusty old institution like Oxford, filled with the likes of Sebastian Flyte and English aristocracy, doesn‘t mean young, aspiring Asian schools are inferior, all right?“

Oliver chuckled: „No need to feel insulted, Elio. I‘m proud of you for this chance. But our timing is bad.“

„Very bad“ Elio conceded. „Oxford is just a few hours by train from Paris.“

„I know.“ 

„Which college?“

„Exeter.“

„Exeter is lovely“, Elio said softly. They listened to each other‘s breathing until Oliver asked:

„Can I see you before you leave?“

**************

Elio listened to the muffled rushing of the shower in his family‘s Milan apartment. While cutting tomatoes, he tried to forget it was Oliver‘s gorgeous naked body getting all wet and fresh only a few feet from him. He adjusted his cut jeans at the crotch with his dry hand and went onto the balcony of their spacious kitchen to get some basil. The kitchen was high-ceilinged and cool like the rest of their large, old apartment. Elio loved to walk on bare feet over the yellow and black checkered floor. Returning from the heat outside with some sprigs of basil, he quickly checked if the water was boiling soon. Wait– did Oliver sing in the shower? He never did before. Elio smiled. Sounded like the old Fred Astaire song he had sung in the quiet streets of Bergamo on their last night. Indeed – Oliver was singing. He‘d make fun of him later, Elio thought, pursing his lips while opening a package of farfalle. He turned to the fridge to get out the mozzarella he had bought earlier, before picking Oliver up from the station. Oliver had had a rather long trip, getting only a flight into Zurich and having taken the train from there. 

Elio had been more nervous than he admitted to himself. When he paced the end of the platform, the backpack with groceries getting heavier on his sweaty back, he felt insecure all of a sudden. He hadn‘t been kind when Oliver left last time in Paris. Would they be able to start afresh? Would there be some awkward seconds? Maybe he‘d leave again next day if it didn‘t work out instead of in four days? Elio fidgeted with a buffer with his foot and scratched his neck. He‘d be a nervous mess if the train wouldn‘t arrive soon. But finally, thankfully, a cheerful chord from the loudspeaker announced the next message. An incomprehensible voice spoke rapidly while the stout, slow locomotive snaked it‘s way into the right track. Elio sighed and let his shoulders fall. His heart raced and despite the muggy heat, his hands felt cold. He turned. He couldn‘t bear the slowness of the approaching train. His eyes had followed his shoes, impatiently kicking a small pebble. When he lifted them, his gaze fell on a large poster of Da Vinci‘s „Lady with an ermine“. An ermine. Change. The little weasel had been watching him all the time from the back. Screeching, hissing and a sudden silence after a last roar announced the arrival of the train. With a last amused look at the ermine, Elio turned to meet Oliver.

When he finally appeared far from him, in the middle of the platform, pulling a large suitcase on wheels behind him and juggling a brown leather backpack and another bag, he let out his breath. Everything would be fine. This was Oliver. His other half. His friend. His lover. His brother. His…

„You didn‘t change at all. Wait – you did!“ Oliver beamed. Elio felt strong, warm arms embracing him and let himself fall into the hug. He buried his nose at the collar of Oliver‘s light – blue shirt – a grandson of Billowy? - , drew in his scent and went slack. Regardless of travelers hustling and bustling around them, they just stood there and held each other. When Elio finally raised his head and found himself only inches from Oliver‘s lips, a sudden tension tingled between them, a faint memory of „I‘d kiss you if I could“. Oliver‘s whispered „I‘ll kiss you later“ shot straight into his groin. Still hooked. Nothing had changed. 

Elio sighed when remembering his visceral reaction to Oliver when he heard naked feet patter on the creaking old floor in the hallway. Elio, tending the mozzarella, looked over his shoulder. His heart stopped: Oliver entered the kitchen with nothing but a towel around his waist. His wet hair was combed back. He dazzled him with the smile he had never been able to resist, stopped behind Elio and kissed his neck. Small drops of cool water fell on Elio‘s shoulder who shrugged him off:

„Careful, I‘ve a knife… Do you want an aperitivo?“

Oliver stepped to the side and nodded: „Sounds lovely.“

Elio was grateful to have an excuse to get to the fridge, looked inside and asked: „Campari? Martini? Orange juice?“

„Campari, please. On the rocks.“

„Nothing in it?“ Oliver shook his head. He didn‘t seem self-conscious at all. Tanned and fit, his body was still as gorgeous as nine years before. Elio offered him his glass with the blood-red drink, ice clinking, promising summer and sweet bitterness. He had an orange juice himself. Oliver smiled when he raised his glass:

„I remember.“ Elio nodded. After one more sip, Oliver asked:

„How old is this house?“

„‘bout one hundred years.“

Oliver touched the book Elio had left face-down on the kitchen table, „Il Pendolo di Foucault“: „Do you like it?“

„Fascinating. Might be something for you.“

Oliver was wandering without any self-consciousness around the kitchen, inspecting the view from the window, a print above the table, some CDs stacked next to a small CD-player. Elio saw his splendid figure slowly circling back to the counter and asked:

„Aren‘t you cold? Without any clothes, I mean?“

„No. I‘m fine, thanks. Or do you mind half-clothed dinner guests in the kitchen?“

Elio shrugged and turned back to the stove. The water had started to boil.

„What‘s wrong? Did I do anything wrong?“ Elio felt tender hands on his hips and the smell of their lemon soap very close to him. He slowly let the farfalle trickle into the bubbling water after having added salt. Leaning back, he met Oliver‘s body. Nothing but the towel between them. Turning slowly, he said:

„I‘m sorry, Oliver, but… When you left in Paris, my heart almost broke. It‘s still the same. I can‘t have this off and on. I‘m sorry, but – you know?“

Oliver looked at him. His eyes shone in the dim kitchen, flashing like cornflowers.

„I wanted to talk to you about this off and on. That‘s the reason I came.“

Elio nodded and worried his lip.

„Maybe we can talk better if you have a shirt on?“

Oliver threw his hands in the air in a soothing and at the same time impatient gesture – I‘ll be a good guest and dress, forgot how prudish you are, forgot how hot Milan is in August, but never mind – turned and left. Elio stirred the pasta and carefully set the stove on lower, everything to give Oliver some margin at getting decent. He took both of their glasses and followed him to the guestroom he had shown him. Even if he had gone slowly and made as much noise as possible, he caught Oliver in the act of pulling his boxers over his firm round butt.

„Sorry!“, he apologized.

„Nothing you haven‘t seen before.“ Oliver bent over his opened suitcase and pulled out a yellow-white striped shirt. The light blue one he had worn when he arrived carelessly hung over the door. Elio caressed it, drew the sleeve under his nose and rested like that with closed eyes. Oliver, shrugging his arms into the new shirt, laughed loudly:

„No! Don‘t tell me you are still that sort of pervert?“

Elio couldn‘t avoid a grin. It was damn difficult to bear a grudge against Oliver. 

„Still am. Sick and twisted.“

„What about my first shirt?“

„I wore it probably a thousand times. But not in the last three years. Didn‘t want to.“

„Maybe you want to keep this one here when I leave? To have something to take to Korea?“

Elio looked away: „I don‘t know. Here‘s your drink.“

Oliver accepted it but looked at Elio:

„I really hurt you?“

Elio nodded.

„I‘m sorry. I…“

„It‘s all right, let‘s not rehash it. We just have no chance of being together, as the recent career moves show.“

„But Elio“ – Oliver had stepped forward and touched Elio lightly at the elbows - „that‘s what I came for. To talk about us.“

„Why now?“ Elio sipped at his orange juice and leant against the door frame.

„I had no idea my father inhibited me in so many ways. So much changed when he died. I‘m sorry I was unable to work this out earlier, and on my own, but – that‘s the truth. I feel as if doors are opening up that had been closed for me.“ Oliver looked at him pleadingly. „Please don‘t think I wouldn‘t love you…“ Elio moaned, put his glass on the night stand and wrapped his arms around Oliver. They embraced in silence. He saw a vein in Oliver‘s neck throbbing quickly. Stroking his wet hair, he said:

„Let‘s talk about it after dinner. Over dinner, you tell me everything that happened to you in the last three years. Shit, the pasta!“ he cried and raced out of the room.


	10. Midnight in Milan

They enjoyed their meal on the balcony. Oliver‘s recapitulation of the last three years turned into a confession about his complicated relationship with his father. He had demanded excellence, in every situation. A former marine, he abhorred effeminacy or softness in a man, to say nothing of gay tendencies. Oliver had moved out as soon as he could support himself. But despite his attempt at getting free, his father subconsciously still controlled his life. With his death, the dark, suffocating veil had lifted. His mother had cried when Oliver had had an open talk with her after his father‘s death. She was still affectionate, but distant. The elephant in the room had gotten bigger, but no sorting through the house and organizing together could hide it. Oliver was glad the strained weeks in his mother‘s home were over.

„You don‘t know how lucky you are with your parents“, Oliver said while Elio got up to light some candles on the balcony.

„Oh, I know. I‘m aware of it, believe me. And grateful.“ He passed Oliver to get to a candle on the other side of the table. When it emitted a soft yellow glow, he turned and put a hand on Oliver‘s shoulder. They looked at each other silently. Silent and content. Elio massaged Oliver‘s shoulder shortly and lightly caressed his cheek:

„I‘m sorry your father stood in your way.“ Oliver looked up, stopped Elio‘s hand and pulled him in an unexpected swift motion onto his lap. Elio, surprised, followed without hesitation – one more of their well-practiced dance mouvements. „What?“ he exclaimed.

„Keep still. You have something – here…“ Oliver swept his little finger over the corner of Elio‘s mouth. „Pesto.“ „Oh.“ Elio watched Oliver putting his finger into his mouth and licking it slowly. He curled his lips until Oliver grinned also: „You‘re sick.“ „You know“ – Elio felt suddenly hot, sitting on Oliver‘s thighs, feeling a strong hand on his back – „I never met anyone who had lips as pink as your‘s.“ Elio pouted. „Nice try, but...“ He tried to free himself but Oliver stopped him: „And I never saw such a delicate little curve at the corner of any lips. This here, this place“ – he tenderly touched the corner of Elio‘s mouth again – „that‘s so cute. You are cute.“ They locked their eyes for some seconds. Elio looked at Oliver‘s lips, so close to his face, and held his breath. He felt he was close to giving in. Again. He hopped off Oliver‘s lap and said:

„I‘ll go get the cheese.“ 

„No no no, come here“, Oliver decided and arrested him from behind. He wrapped his arms around Elio‘s waist and held him tightly. Elio waited a few seconds before turning sideways. Oliver‘s hands on him felt too good. 

„Do you still remember our last night in Paris?“ „Mmh.“ „I can still feel you if I think of it“, Oliver murmured. Elio felt a sudden flash between his hipbones. Oliver let one hand wander over his butt.

But – no. He kissed the top of Oliver‘s head and said into his fresh smelling hair:

„I told you, I can‘t have this anymore. I miss you too much when you‘re away again. I‘m tempted as hell, believe me, but, please… Stop it.“

He stacked their plates onto each other and proceeded into the kitchen. Oliver followed with the oval salad plate. The kitchen seemed dark in the twilight, but Elio turned on a small lamp and took two perfect plum-coloured figs into his hands. Oliver stopped him on his way to the sink, laced his fingers around Elio‘s white hands and the precious soft fruit and said:

„This may be an odd place for my proposal, but – I came here to make it better this time. Elio.“ He tenderly cradled Elio‘s hands. Plucking the figs carefully from his fingers and laying them on the counter, he took Elio‘s hands in his again and said:

„You‘re the one. I knew it all the time.“

Elio remained calm. He waited for Oliver to go on. His pulse had quickened and he asked himself if this was just a dream when he felt Oliver‘s cool toe on his naked foot. The memory of a smile twirled through his head.

„Light of my eyes…“ Oliver whispered and stroked the top of his foot with the side of his toe. Elio sighed, pressed Oliver against the counter and put his forehead against Oliver‘s. When they almost toppled over, they laughed. Elio steadied himself at Oliver‘s shoulders and said:

„I won‘t survive another breakup. Or uncertainty. It‘s all or nothing now“, he said simply.

„All, please.“

„And how are we to do this, with me in Korea?“

„I‘ll come and visit. We‘ll write letters. I‘ll love only you. And if you want to extend your stay, I‘ll look into jobs for me there. Wherever you go, I‘ll go from now on.“

„You promise?“, Elio asked with wrinkled forehead.

„Yes“, Oliver nodded. Elio brushed his hips over Oliver‘s. He seemed hard also.

„Good. Because someone is about to explode.“

Elio‘s lips were on Oliver‘s before he had a chance to reply. They melted into a soft, wet kiss, forgetting cheese and fruit and everything, and tumbled, still kissing, out of the room.

*

The figs, resting patiently on the old scratched kitchen table while the candles flickered in the falling dusk on the balcony, heard smacking. Growling. Sighs. The pang of a belt buckle hitting the wodden floor. The creaking of a bed. They couldn‘t hear that Oliver whispered in Elio‘s ear, curls tickling his cheek, that he wanted him to ride him, wearing nothing but the shirt he had worn on his trip. Couldn‘t see Oliver‘s large hands grazing Elio‘s svelte, long-limbed naked body under the shirt when he finally had arranged himself on Oliver. Insatiate, lustful, but tender fingers circled his waist and played with his nipples. Warm hands supported his butt while Elio slowly moved up and down, enjoying every inch of friction. The figs didn‘t see when Elio stopped, bent down to look into Oliver‘s eyes, moaned into his mouth with opened lips and was caught in a kiss. Didn‘t hear him demand hoarsely: „Want on my knees. Need you deeper.“ Couldn‘t see them going on in this position until Oliver collapsed, spent and sweaty, on top of Elio, their heads at the lower end of the bed, fingers entwined as if they never wanted to let go again.

*

After some silence, Elio traipsed back into the kitchen on shaky legs. How come that everything still looked the same, the candles still burning, the stacked plates in the sink, when something enormous and life-changing had happened? He looked around himself in disbelief. Letting a hand run languidly through his messy curls, he tried to come back into reality. Oliver was hungry. He heard the flushing of the toilet and water running in the bathroom. Elio took one of the figs into his hand and thought about what to serve his hungry lover. The fig lay silky and plush in his palm. He gently closed his fingers around it. The weight of it, the shape… Elio closed his eyes, flooded by lustful memories. It was colder, admittedly, but otherwise… He brought the round fruit to his face and was about to kiss it softly when Oliver appeared in the kitchen. He stopped, watched Elio amusedly and laughed softly:

„You‘re not going to abuse this poor thing also?“ 

Elio shook his curls:

„No, it just reminded me… Look here…“ He held the full fig to Oliver. „It reminded me of certain parts of you that feel so good in my hands. And my mouth.“

Oliver hissed, pulled him towards his naked body and said: “Still as sick as I like it.“ He kissed him ardently, letting cautious fingers brush over the fruit. Elio kissed him back and let his fingers run over his smooth back before saying:

„Let‘s find something to eat for you.“

After Elio had cut some pecorino in neat triangles, quartered all of the figs and sliced some bread, they fed each other, standing idly in the cool kitchen. Oliver had gotten one of their glasses from the balcony. Alternating sips of wine and fruit and cheese, they stayed as close to each other as possible. Elio leaned with his back against Oliver and accepted morsels of food into his mouth, feeling like a bird in a nest. He licked and kissed Oliver‘s fingers whenever he had fed him something. While they chewed, Oliver caressed Elio‘s flat tummy, his chest, as much of his thighs as he could reach. Elio sighed contentedly and started to sway his butt and hips. Oliver followed until they danced in place in a funny, sensual mouvement. 

„Have you ever danced naked in the kitchen?“, he grinned.

„No, but I like it.“ Oliver held him close with both hands on his waist, gently guided his hips and kissed the side of his neck. Elio sighed:

„It‘s soothing. I might fall asleep soon.“

„Who‘s the one with jet-lag?“ Oliver asked.

„Let‘s go back to bed, shall we?“

„One more fig, please“, Oliver asked and accepted the moist, sweet fruit from Elio‘s fingers. He licked them and murmured, chewing slowly: „You know, you were up to something here. These are as luscious as your lips. Juicy and addictive.“ Elio smiled and offered him his mouth. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes indulgently was the light of the candles throwing flickering shadows on Oliver‘s naked body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the figs are the new Tree... I just wanted to leave the most exciting part to your imagination.


	11. Somewhere in Middle Korea, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - extreme fluff ahead.

Elio carefully held the mosquito net over their bed apart and searched for the floor with his naked toes. Slowly, he wriggled out of bed and closed the net again. Oliver was visible through the net, laying on his side, his cheek pressed into the pillows. He had been drowsy when Elio woke up on their first morning in the cabin, mumbling „I‘ve been dreaming. We were driving“. Elio told him to sleep some more, he‘d be outside and write. Oliver nodded with closed eyes and almost didn‘t kiss him back, already on his way into new dreams.

Elio put on some boxers and a white shirt he left open before exploring the cabin. They had arrived in the last day light, driving from Seoul yesterday up into the mountains. The road had been steeper and more complicated to find than expected, meandering higher and higher through lush, dark - green woods. The cabin really was as remote as advertised, but here they were, finally, high above everything, with a breathtaking view of rolling hills on both sides. The cabin was a whimsical, funny structure of wood and glass, surrounded by patios and verandas on different levels. Some were on stilts even to be level with the cabin. Despite the abundance of green surrounding them, there were pots with herbs and hanging baskets with creepers everywhere. 

Elio opened the door to the deck off the kitchen. A steep wooden staircase led down into the garden, but Elio turned to the railing, leaned his hands on it and took in the peaceful view. The fresh air was the biggest change to Seoul. The other one was the silence, broken only by birds whose sound Elio had never heard. But apart from this – nothing. Pure paradise for a musician. Elio breathed in indulgently. What a sweet smell after last night‘s rain. Clean, pure, but with a sweet undercurrent. He sighed. He couldn‘t believe that they would stay here for two longe weeks.

After Elio had fixed himself some tea, he sat down to write in his diary. Even if Oliver had been with him three weeks already, everything was new and magical. And needed to be recorded. Not only everything they had visited and tasted and heard in Seoul, but also the impact on his soul Oliver‘s presence had. When had he felt so alive and so deeply happy the last time? Maybe ten years ago, in their first magical summer. Elio alternated writing with sipping his tea and looking over the green hills in the golden morning light. He was deeply grateful for all the blessings in his life: Oliver. His mother‘s health. The prestigious and rewarding position he held in Seoul. The safe arrival of Marzia‘s second child. This particular bird above his head, singing so inventively…

Elio heard tentative steps behind him. Oliver appeared. His hair was mussed from sleep, one cheek bore pink stripes from the cushion. He groaned, rubbed his eyes quickly before leaning in and hugging Elio from behind. Elio reached up backwards and put his arms around Oliver‘s neck. His shirt slipped off his arms. Oliver left a trail of kisses on the soft skin of his underarms. Elio sighed, put his hands over Oliver‘s and turned his head to kiss him. Oliver pulled him closer, rested his head on top of Elio‘s and said:

„Wow. Look at that.“

Elio smiled: „Already did. Can you believe this will be our view for the next two weeks?“

„It‘s heaven“, Oliver admitted. Slowly breathing in and out, they stayed like that. Elio never felt as safe as when Oliver hugged him from behind. When Oliver moved and asked „Coffee?“ Elio nodded and quickly kissed Oliver‘s hand. „Can I stay and write some more? Almost done…“ Oliver nodded and tousled Elio‘s hair.

When he came back with two steaming mugs of coffee, Elio closed his diary. Wordlessly, Oliver got a chair to sit right next to him. He grasped one of Elio‘s hands while they silently sipped their coffee. Elio put one foot onto Oliver‘s, smiled at him and said: 

„This is like a honeymoon, isn‘t it?“

Oliver nodded. He gently squeezed Elio‘s hand, took one more sip of coffee and said, looking into the stunning landscape unfolding in front of them:

„Can we just say this is our honeymoon? You know, I hate parties and stuff. But I want the ever after with you.“

Elio looked ahead of him. He was silent for a few seconds until he replied:

„All right.“

„All right?“, Oliver reassured himself.

„Yes. From now on. I remember you hate engagements also, so… That‘s it, I guess?“ Elio shrugged and grinned. „You may kiss the bride now“, he offered, leaning in. And Oliver did.

***************

Later that week, they drove down into the next little town in the valley to get groceries and eat in the restaurant their landlord owned. The temperature rose with every meter they lost, and when they finally arrived, the heat was oppressive and as moist as in Seoul. Feeling the difference, they were once again grateful for their secluded place high up in the mountains.

Strolling around town, they noticed a shrine. Elio wanted to visit it – they had been to several of the large and famous shrines in Korea already, and Elio wanted to see this one as well. It was much smaller than the other ones, as could be seen by the small parking lot and just one souvenir shop. But the garden was spacious, shadowy and a welcome refuge from the heat. After their visit, Elio wanted to stay in the park a bit. He looked pale. Oliver asked him if he needed a drink of water. Elio nodded, pushed some sweaty curls from his face and said he‘d sit down for a second, if Oliver didn‘t mind.

When Oliver returned from the souvenir shop, the place was empty and peaceful. Some birds sang in the tall trees, but otherwise: heavenly small-town silence. He had to look for Elio and found him laying on his back on a remote stone bench, eyes closed, his arms crossed behind his back, one leg bent at the knee, one outstretched. Oliver stopped and took in the view. Elio wore one of the colourful shirts with tropical plants he had aquired in Seoul. The emerald green, petrol blue and yellow of the shirt mingled perfectly with the bamboo and dark green shrubbery enveloping him. Elio‘s skin shone like mother-of-pearl. He lay there effortlessly but looked like a model – timeless, utterly beautiful and just perfect in his relaxed elegant pose. In tune with nature surrounding him. Oliver couldn‘t avoid the well-known surge of pride he felt whenever he stepped back and watched Elio from a distance. He‘d fall in love with him all over again, every day.

The crunching gravel revealed him. Elio opened his eyes, sighed and gracefully sat up. He accepted the bottle of water gratefully from Oliver. Oliver watched his delicate throat, his bobbing Adam‘s apple when he took a large sip.

„What?“

„Just in love with you throat“, Oliver shrugged and opened his own bottle.

„Jerk“, Elio bumped his knee with his own. He looked around them:

„How quiet this place is. It‘s a special kind of peacefulness here, don‘t you think? A holy place indeed.“

Oliver nodded, rummaged in his pocket and offered a simple bracelet with green round beads to Elio. Holding a blue one, he said:

„I thought a bit of a ceremony wouldn‘t hurt. And since this is a holy place…“

Elio looked at him puzzled. Oliver took his hand, slipped the bracelet slowly over it and said solemnly:

„With this bracelet - which I‘ll replace with a better one as soon as we are in a bigger town again – I promise to love and protect you as long as I shall live. I want to spend my life with you, Elio. Wherever you go, I‘ll go, too.“ He smoothed the jewellery over Elio‘s frail wrist. Elio looked at him. His eyes had grown large. He swallowed and blinked until a radiant smile lightened up his face. He groped for Oliver‘s hand and slid the green bracelet over it:

„With this bracelet, which I‘ll never replace because it‘s perfect, I promise to love you and take care of you. As long as I shall live.“ Slipping the bracelet in place, he held Oliver‘s hand for some seconds before wrapping his arms around him. They hugged firmly, stroked each other‘s shoulders and just stayed lost in each other while the birds still chirped and the river behind the temple gurgled on. After a while, Elio loosened his arms, leaned back and said:

„And I didn‘t cry! Aren‘t you proud of me?“

Oliver slowly raised his head. His nose was pink, his eyes reddish and moist. Seeing Elio‘s loving eyes on him, he sniffed loudly. Some more tears burst from his eyes. Elio pursed his lips, gently wiped Oliver‘s wet cheek and whispered:

„Don‘t cry. You goose. All is good now.“


	12. Bergamo, 2003

„You can‘t have your spaceship. You‘ll let it fall and disturb Elio. And he has to concentrate a lot…“

Elio interrupted Marzia:

„Give Julien his spaceship. I won‘t hear anything when I‘m playing. The library could catch fire and I wouldn‘t notice.“

They were standing in a small room off the cloister of Bergamo Humanities library which functioned as an open-air concert hall tonight. Julien fiddled with the hem of Marzia‘s pink dress and looked shily up to Elio. 

„You can‘t expect a child to survive a whole piano recital without his spaceship“, he said again.

Marzia began to rummage in her enormous white bag. Once, this had been her personal space, for her camera and other necessities. Now, she had to dig through pacifiers, chocolates, lollipops, wipes and various small or not so small toys. She found the lego toy and gave it to Julien who remarked:

„There‘s a whole wing missing.“

Marzia sighed and looked for a place to put down her bag. Elio was already in his concert attire as the recital was about to start in a few minutes. Marzia wouldn‘t take photos while he played tonight – they already had had a leisurely photo session this morning when he tried out the piano (the photo of him leaning relaxed against one of the pillars of the arcades should adorn his next CD, but they both didn‘t know yet), followed by a long lunch for just the two of them. Marzia‘s youngest one was left behind with her parents, the other two explored Bergamo with her husband. Now, the whole family was here, to Marzia‘s distress. She didn‘t want Julien to distract Elio, especially as they had seats in the front. Elio sensed her unease and said:

„Listen, why don‘t we ask Oliver to sit with Julien somewhere in the back? He could get up when he wants and crawl on the floor a bit or whatever. And Oliver doesn‘t mind, he‘s heard my program often enough.“

„Doesn‘t he want to sit in the front?“

„Sometimes, but he told me seats are rare today. He went to get more chairs, and as I know him, he‘ll linger somewhere in the back and stand all the time in order to let someone else have his seat.“

In this second Oliver appeared, dapper and elegant in a blue Italian suit. Julien dashed to him, cried „Olivier!“ and hugged one of his legs.

„Will you take care of Julien during the concert? There was a discussion about spaceships…“

„Of course, of course.“ Regardless of his fine clothes, Oliver lifted Julien up into his arms. „I know the perfect place for us to watch. Come on.“

Stepping to Elio to kiss him briefly, he told him:

„The chairs are still in the same room.“ Elio raised his eyebrows and hid a grin. „Play well, my darling.“ Elio patted Oliver‘s arm and watched the two disappear.

„You‘ve been here before?“, Marzia asked. Elio nodded: „Twenty years ago. Research for Oliver‘s book.“

„Research?“ Marzia repeated. „All right. See you afterwards, chéri.“

*

After the concert, their large group of friends and family celebrated with an elaborate meal at a restaurant Samuel and Annella had suggested. They beamed, glad to have Elio and Oliver around, and overlooked proudly the long table the restaurant had assembled to accomodate their group. The guests were animated and noisy, but Elio, sitting opposite Oliver, heard Oliver‘s sonorous voice well over the chatter of other patrons when he told the story of the chairs to Annella who was sitting next to Elio:

„And when I went to look for chairs, I found them in a beautiful ancient vaulted room off the cloister. I mean, this room could be transferred to the Metropolitan and people would pay to see it – and here they use it as storage? Pillars and vaults and all?“ Annella shrugged. Oliver looked at Elio over the glowing candles on the table when he continued: „And there was one particular column, a bit in the back, that looked – uneven, special somehow. When I looked at it, I felt: it has a story to tell. The column has seen a lot in his long life…“ Oliver felt a shoe kicking his foot. Elio scrunched his nose at him and interrupted him:

„But on to more mundane details – maman, we decided to stay in the „Agnello d‘oro“ for one more night, for private nostalgic reasons.“

„Bien sur“, Annella smiled. „But how do you get back, shall we pick you up tomorrow?“

Elio shook his head and tenderly fondled Oliver‘s foot with his:

„Oliver wants to get the whole experience, you know. Take the blue bus back again. Even if he get‘s sick probably in all those serpentines.“

„That‘s the price for nostalgia!“, Samuel interjected. „You call us from the bar and we‘ll pick you up in Crema, all right?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your kudos and comments. They made me smile a lot!


End file.
